


c'est la vie

by naktoms



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Established Relationship, M/M, i wrote most of this while high off pain meds frm my surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 01:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10062770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naktoms/pseuds/naktoms
Summary: Thomas coming home is always, without fail, a humongous event.





	

**Author's Note:**

> code name: "jeffmads promo fic"  
> me and [cindy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketfulloffandom) are writing a big ol spy au that might get posted by summer lol idk  
> this is smth that wldnt have made it into the main fic so i decided to write it just to build Hype (hopefully)
> 
> kudos + comments are appreciated!! i hope u enjoy! and questions abt the au are welcome B)

The following words are, at this point, not acceptable greetings: hello, hi, hey, good morning, good evening, etcetera.

The following is: “I hope you’re aware that it is _four in the morning_ \--”

“I bought a tiny Eiffel Tower!” Thomas interrupts, holding his prize up by his face so James can see. It is broad daylight in France, and Thomas appears to be sitting in a cafe. James might have had some sort of vague romantic thoughts about the way the sunlight illuminates Thomas’ face if not for the fact that it’s _four in the morning_.

“You could have just,” James pauses, dragging a hand over his face, “sent me a _picture_ , or something.”

“Video call is more romantic, don’t you think?”

“You are no longer welcome in my home.”

James peeks through his fingers at his phone screen, and Thomas is grinning at him. “This is for you, by the way,” Thomas adds nonchalantly, as if it isn’t a big deal that he probably paid a ridiculous tourist-trap price for this downsized Eiffel Tower. “I bought you some other stuff, too, but that can be a surprise.”

James grumbles in response. He knows that he’ll think about it later and find it endearing, touching that Thomas would take time out of his day to wander souvenir shops for James.

James has almost dozed back off when Thomas starts up again with, “Well! I should get going, I suppose. I love you!” He singsongs the last part. James grumbles again, and Thomas hangs up with a laugh.

(However, before he tosses his phone somewhere in the vicinity of his nightstand, he texts Thomas a “love you too” and then, after a moment’s deliberation, adds a heart.)

 

It has never been particularly hard to deal with Thomas’ overseas assignments. Belgium for six months? Great, James gets to listen to Thomas butcher the Dutch language. England for three weeks? Heavy critique of America’s french fries ( _they’re called chips here, get it right, James_ ) in comparison to London’s. Hell, even just being in a different state than usual is always an adventure. James was once treated to Thomas screaming at an alligator in Texas, only for it to be a statue.

It’s pleasant, to an extent. James is perfectly content to be stuck at HQ forever as a senior agent, babysitting others and ensuring their missions go according to plan, but he gets to experience life as a field agent through his exuberant boyfriend.

“Guess what,” Thomas says, and this go around it is his turn to be sleepy during a call, eyes drooping.

James, on the other hand, is finishing up paperwork for one of his sick colleagues. “What?”

“I’m coming home in a couple weeks,” Thomas replies, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “You’re still gonna come pick me up from the airport, right?”

“No, I’m going to let you walk home.” James cracks a smile, glancing up from his work after finishing a sentence. “Still at seven, right?”

“Yeah.” Thomas runs a hand over his unruly hair, then stretches his arms over his head. “Guess I should go to bed, babe. I’ve got some loose ends to tie up before I get sent home, y’know.”

“Yeah, I know. Sleep well.”

“You too, when you do. Good luck with that there paperwork.”

“Thanks.”

A long moment’s pause, spent staring at each other. “Love you,” Thomas says, hair falling over his face as he shifts in bed.

“I love you too,” James replies, quiet.

Another soft moment of staring, then Thomas grins and waves. James always hangs up first, because he knows Thomas could very well continue making heart eyes at his screen until he passed out from exhaustion. James keeps looking at his phone screen for a few seconds, then smiles to himself and finishes up his work.

 

Thomas coming home is always, without fail, a humongous event (scratch that, a humongous pain in the ass). He expects James to be there the instant he lands, but also ends up being the one with the delayed flight so James is at the airport an entire three hours early, asleep in the lobby as Thomas texts him.

James wakes up in a vaguely panicked, confused state before he realizes why he’s slumped over in a chair in the airport lobby. He checks his phone and rolls his eyes when he sees the “Thomas (25 new messages)” on his lock screen.

The texts are various rephrasings of “james im bored” “james i wanna go back to france and i havent left yet” “james are you awake” “JAMES”. The messages ceased about an hour ago, which probably means that Thomas’ flight finally left. Which also means James has nothing else to do but drink too-strong coffee in the food court until Thomas arrives.

James has fallen asleep again, slumped over in a different chair with said too-strong coffee sitting on the floor beside his feet, when he’s awoken by his phone ringing loudly. He fumbles when answering it, which leads to him declining the call, and he curses inwardly because _great now he’s going to bitch at me._

Bitch he does. “James!” Thomas answers, great indignation in his voice. “The disrespect. I have been on terra firma for a total of ten minutes and you are already ruining it.”

“I’m sorry--”

“I’m telling the pilot to turn this damn plane around and take off again, take me back to France.”

“Thomas.”

James can imagine Thomas grinning wickedly. “I’m headed for baggage claim, and then I’ll be off to the lobby. Hold in there, babe.”

James grunts in response, and Thomas hangs up with a laugh.

Thomas appears in a flurry of quick motion and yelling about an hour later, waving at James frantically as he approaches. “Darling,” Thomas says once he’s within earshot, “would you be kind enough to take this _damn duffel bag_?”

James takes said duffel bag without a word, finding it to be rather weighty but nothing horrible (which means that it is indeed horrible for Thomas). James ends up carrying another of Thomas’ bags, as well, and he notices that Thomas also has a rolling suitcase with two more duffels stacked atop.

“I know you didn’t leave with that much baggage,” James comments.

“Of course not. How am I supposed to live in France for six months and not buy anything?”

“Easily, considering you’re sent there _all the time_.”

“And each time is just as new and exciting as the first,” Thomas proclaims with a sweeping gesture as they walk out of the airport. James rolls his eyes.

 

As is customary, Thomas spends the first night home in James’ apartment. Thomas insists upon it, because _FaceTime can’t compare to the real thing_ , so he thinks he needs to invade James’ living space for the first 24 hours he’s home. (In reality, James has no real problems with it, other than all the junk Thomas purchased overseas also invades his living space.)

Also as is customary, they argue over what to eat for dinner, what to watch on TV, and who should sleep where. Furthermore, they also still end up in James’ too-small twin size bed together.

Thomas has his head resting on the headboard, one hand idly twisting James’ curls around his fingers. “I miss you a lot, you know,” he says, almost mumbles, like James shouldn’t hear it.

James looks over at him, can barely make out his face in the dark. “We talk every day, though,” he points out, as if that makes a difference for sickly-sentimental Thomas. Thomas just smiles, a flash of teeth. James quietly follows up with, “I miss you too.”

“I think we should go to France for something other than work,” Thomas muses softly. “Rent a cute chateau in the mountains, or something. Get that expensive wine.”

“You don’t even drink.”

“Drinking and swirling wine around in a fancy glass are two different things.”

James chuckles. “That sounds nice, really. Maybe we should start with something more local, first.”

“Local,” Thomas repeats.

“You know I always have work up to here,” James makes a gesture that he doubts Thomas can really see, but that is supposed to indicate _a lot of damn work_.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But, come on, you’ve gone into work when you’ve been honest-to-God close to dying from pneumonia.”

“I wasn’t close to dying--”

“Well then you sure as hell _looked_ like it. Anyway, I think never missing a day of work for like, the past ten years, qualifies someone as deserving of a vacation.” A moment’s pause. Thomas shifts so he’s lying down, then slings an arm over James’ torso. “I’m going to write Washington in the morning.”

“No--”

“ _Yes_ ,” Thomas says firmly, but also pleadingly. “If nothing else, right now, we can just go see a movie. Or have a nice dinner! Anything’s better than making out in the break room every day.”

“We do _not_ make out in the break room every day.”

“We probably would if Hamilton didn’t hover. Man is scared to death of someone eating his lunch.”

James sighs, mostly in resignation, and turns his head to look at Thomas; they’re so close that their noses brush when he does so. “Fine. A weekend off, then.”

“There you go. I don’t have to go back to work until Monday, anyway, so we can just spend the weekend together.” Thomas tilts his head so their foreheads bump. James can’t help but smile. “Maybe we can just stay in. I can cook for us.”

“Okay, but none of it can come from a box.”

“You know what? I’m going back to France.”


End file.
